In the heart of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, at the flag point, the Indian tricolor fluttered proudly against the azure sky. The newly erected flagpole stands tall at 150 meters, proudly displaying the Indian flag and embodying the aspirations, dreams, and achievements of the nation. It is said that in the year 1943, the indomitable Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose stood tall, his eyes gleaming with determination as he hoisted the flag, and the islands were transferred to the Provisional Government of Azad Hind (Free India). It is astonishing to think that this event occurred about four years before India gained its independence.
As the flag waved gracefully over the Bay of Bengal, it whispered tales of courage and unity to all who beheld it. Nearby, a metallic embossed image of Bose stood as a silent sentinel, a tribute to the man who dared to dream. A few school-going children were reading the plaques, and a candy seller was pushing his cart nearby, selling an assortment of hard candies, toffees, lollipops, and popcorn.
As I gazed upon the image of Bose, a flood of memories washed over me, transporting me back to my childhood. I remembered the cozy nights of my junior school days when my father would tuck me into bed and weave enchanting tales. He was an expert storyteller, his voice rich with emotion, painting vivid pictures with his words. Each night, he would read a few paragraphs or a short story from a book, his voice rising and falling like the waves of the Bay of Bengal Sea, adding background sounds and elaborate descriptions that brought the story to life. After the story, he would kiss me goodnight and switch off the lights, leaving me to close my eyes and replay the tale in my mind, visualizing every detail.
A Father’s Story
One such night, filled with the warmth of his stories, I turned to him and asked, “Can you tell me a true story from when you were my age?” His eyes twinkled with a mix of nostalgia and excitement as he began to recount a tale from his own childhood – a story that would become a cherished memory for me, just as his stories had always been, and somehow this story of my father is etched in my mind.
In 1943, my father was just a little boy of about five years old. His father’s cousin, whom my dad lovingly called Uncle, visited often. Uncle was very fond of my dad and would frequently take him for walks around the village. At the end of their strolls, my father would always beg to take a detour to a small store. This store had an array of colorful hard candies displayed in bottles at the front, and my father would insist that Uncle buy him one.
Sometimes, Uncle would try to dissuade him, saying that hard candies were bad for his teeth or that if he constantly bought candies, my grandmother would not let him take my father for walks anymore. But my father was persistent and would throw tantrums if Uncle refused. Eventually, Uncle would give in and buy him a candy. His favorite one was the orange-flavored hard candy. These treats were not costly, yet my father always requested them during their walks, often mentioning the coins in his uncle’s pocket.
After a while, Uncle started warning my father that if he kept insisting on candies, he would not take him for walks anymore. My father reluctantly agreed not to ask, but as they neared home, he would start pleading for a candy again. This pattern continued until Uncle’s visits became less frequent, and eventually, he stopped coming altogether.
The Weight of Memories
Years passed by. After about a decade or so, my father suddenly remembered this uncle and asked his mother (my grandmother) about him. She mentioned that his uncle’s business had collapsed at that time, and to settle his debts, he was forced to sell everything, including his house and furniture. During the war, finding jobs was difficult, and he struggled to afford even one full meal a day. When he was particularly hungry, he would visit my grandmother, who would feed him a big meal and give him some coins for the bus fare home, sharing a part of the meager money she had with her.
Hearing this, my father was deeply moved. He recalled the tantrums he threw as a young child, demanding hard candies and pressuring his uncle to spend the few precious coins his mother had given him—his only wealth. Despite the hardship, his uncle never complained or explained the situation to the little boy. Instead, he would often buy the candies and then walk all the way back home, unable to afford the bus fare.
It was during that tumultuous period; Subhas Chandra Bose founded the Indian National Army (INA) with the goal of securing India’s independence from British rule. He fervently called upon the youth of India to join the INA, and my uncle heeded this call, embarking on a ship to Singapore to enlist. From the few who returned, my grandmother learned that he had indeed reached Singapore, joined the INA, and became part of the battalion that journeyed from Singapore to India’s northeastern region via Myanmar. Beyond this, his fate remained a mystery.
A Father’s Tears
As my father recounted this story, his voice grew faint, as if a lump had formed in his throat. The memories overwhelmed him; his eyes glistened with tears, which soon began to roll down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his shirt cuff and, with a trembling voice, said, “Sorry, I do not know what came over me. When you asked for a personal story, this emotional one just spilled out.” He then leaned over and kissed my forehead. I touched his cheek, feeling the warmth of his tears, but found myself at a loss for words.
That night, as I lay in bed, I tried to visualize the story as I always did. But for the first time, it eluded me.
After so many years, those long-buried memories have begun to resurface, stirring emotions I thought were long forgotten.
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